Archive for the 'Fits and Starts' Category

So I woke up one day last week and decided my life needs something. I’m missing something, a je ne sais quoi, a joi de vivre that defies me at every turn. I’ve undertaken a quest, if you will, to find that elusive thing I’m missing. It has so many names, but it boils down to one: happiness.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty happy most of the time, but in a self-deprecating way. I’m more inclined to make fun of myself for my inabilities and if I’ve learned anything from reading Linda’s blog it’s that I should be asking myself why I immediately jump to the conclusion that I can’t/won’t/shouldn’t do something.

I’ve spoken about this a bit on the fitness website I contribute to, My 15 Minutes to Better Fitness that I have special circumstances regarding an old injury that I have to consider when working out. (If you’re interested in it, it’s under the Andrea Wrote This category.) I’m bound and determined to be a runner, but after going well for a couple weeks, my bum foot would swell to the point where I nearly couldn’t wear shoes, so I’d rest it. It’d shrink and I’d feel good again, start running again, and boom. Balloon foot. After three times of this, frustration and bitching to my husband about how I just wanted to run for crying out loud, he very gently (yes, gently, there will be no Mike-bashing today, but stay tuned. I make no promises that I won’t make fun of him in some capacity in the future.) suggested that perhaps if I lost some weight before trying to run that the impact to my bad foot would be less and therefore my foot might be able to handle it if I weigh, say, 150 instead of 210. He has a point.

So I’ve been researching things to do that have low impact so I can sustain a workout that won’t kill my foot to the point where I have to stop. I’m playing it by ear, but so far have tried yoga, elliptical machines, and weight machines. When the pools open, perhaps I’ll finally learn to swim (I can only doggy paddle, and drink heavily while floating happily on a noodle) and do some of that. I have an exercise ball I’m going to blow up tonight. I may swipe the husband’s bike and go on a ride.

Thing is, I need to believe in myself. I’ve done some pretty cool things in my life. I’ve published a poem. I’ve won writing contests. I’ve learned to play piano pretty well. I was a kick ass catcher on a softball team in my teen years, until I blew out a knee. But all that stuff was done when I was a teenager. Yes, I was published as a teenager, and by a publishing house, not by a blog software program. But all my potential has stagnated and I have slothed around enough to get up over 200 pounds and lose all belief that there are awesome things I can do.

I need to prove it to myself again. I need to believe. So I’m giving it another go round. This wouldn’t be possible without the assistance of the Babysitter of Awesome that we now take Daughter, from here on our referred to Renuzit as a result of a shocking and clandestine few minutes left alone in the bathroom, to for our workdays. This Babysitter of Awesome has earned herself TWO pair of handknit socks in just the two months she’s been watching Renuzit, one for volunteering to take on my stomach bug ridden daughter because four of her six biological children (yes, I said six) also had it. She took Renuzit so that I wouldn’t miss any more work with the sicknesses. The second pair comes from our agreement to drop Renuzit off an hour earlier so I can work out before work. I love her.

I don’t have any pictures for you today. Maybe if I can get this ball rolling, I will have the nerve to post some before and after pictures when I have some progress to show. But for now, just my talking about it will have to do.

I’m going after it, that elusive belief in myself, that I can do something other than slut around on the couch with my knitting and the TV.

I once set a stock pot on fire. A few minutes after that, I burned the crap out of my hand, requiring ice. Don’t believe me? I have pictures to prove it.

This was after we used flour to put out the oil fire from me reading a recipe wrong.

This after I transferred the food to the crockpot, then burned my fingers on the little metal strip of the heating element beneath the ceramic insert when I pushed the crockpot aside. It was not a good day.

Last night, the kitchen disasters were almost as bad. It all started when I ran out of olive oil. We were having pork sausage and hashbrowns for dinner, and the hashbrowns require a good bit of oil. I looked for vegetable oil before remembering that we took it to our camper for use and it wasn’t easily accessed. I wasn’t driving across town for it, nor was I going to the store in the middle of cooking dinner. Mike was covered in grass clippings and new oil was not to be procured.

Then I remembered some peanut oil we bought for frying a turkey. I retrieved the giant, 3 gallon jug from the top of the fridge where we keep it, spinning my wheels about how to pour out only a little. I know, I thought. I’ll get a cup and then use the cup to pour it into our oil decanter. Brill. Tipping the giant jug, which inexplicably comes wrapped in a box that we, for some unknown reason, hadn’t removed, I got some oil between the jug and the inside of the box. Whoops. I hurriedly tipped it back, trying not to spill any more. For some reason, though, I tried to tip it back while holding the cup to the lip of the pour spout, which then emptied the cup back into the jug, but not gracefully, so there was now more oil in the box.

Turning on the faucet, I rinsed my slicked hands for better grip and tried again. Same thing happened. Shit. Then, I looked closer and saw a steady stream of oil falling from the corner of the box onto the floor, spreading out on the counters, and splattering up on the front of our dishwasher. Double shit.

By this point, the paper towels were flying, the oil was slicking everything, my grip on the floor was fading as was my patience, and my daughter decided to come in and demand a drink.

To keep any more oil from spilling I quickly poured my cup full, hauled the box, streaming, from the counter and put it in the garage on our crap rug we use to wipe our feet, leaving an oil slick behind. I turned in time to see the cat coming to the open garage door. I could just see it, my own version of a tar and feathering. Only it would be an oil and furring. I managed to scare the cat off without getting his fur tangled up in the mess and turned to hurriedly get Daughter’s Drank Drank! As I turned, my feet slid, and the kitchen floor became a skating rink. Woo! Barely remaining upright, I banged my elbow on the counter trying to keep from landing on my butt on top of Daughter.

Luckily, then, Mike returned from retrieving our son from the neighbor’s house and was able to help me clean up without injury, further mess, or any other oil slicks. Unfortunately, the hash browns still didn’t make it. In my hurry to get the damn dinner done already, I poured too much oil into the pan and drowned them. Mike ate them, but he was the only one, prounouncing them edible and good, but could be better. I quickly transferred what was left in the cup to the oil decanter, whipped up a batch of mashed potatoes from the box and called it good.

At least when I burned my hand and that pot I’d still managed to salvage our dinner. After that, I bathed the kids and settled in to knit. At least there’s no way to fall while sitting down knitting. Or, I haven’t discovered it yet.

My apologies for the extended absence. There was some shit going down and my state of mind was not worth sharing in more than little bits and bobs on Twitter. I also didn’t trust myself to post about anything else because I figured my bitter would show through even the most benign of topics. I don’t know if things are better. But I do know that I need blogging, bitter seeping in or not. I need to feel connected to others and a place where I can be open and honest without worrying about super judgy people in my real life.

So! Onward. Have you seen these socks? I saw them and damn near fell over. How awesome are they? However it’ll have to wait. I’m still in baby blanket hell, though I’m staring down the last curve and looking forward to the home stretch of seaming and blocking. 25 blocks is a lot of knitting. Well, apparently baby blanket hell isn’t enough to stop me. I’m going to be in baby blanket hell for a few more weeks, so I took the time out to do some selfish knitting. I’ve kept exactly one thing in the year and a half that I’ve been knitting, so it was high time. I did the Skew Socks and I love them very much.

Yarn: Malabrigo Sock in Carabeño.
Needles: 2 US 1 24″ circulars, US0 DPNs for ribbing.
Satisfaction level: astronomical. I love these socks. I will be wearing them as much as possible.

Not digging the holes on the sides, but knitting them on the bias like that made it hard to keep the increases from having little holes now and then. I think of them as ‘air conditioning’.

I have also joined the Evenstar Mystery Shawl Knitalong. It’s engrossing and lovely and the yarn is The Unique Sheep Eos in Silverlode. I didn’t get the entire gradience set, just the skein second from the left in the picture. The yarn is delicious and I want sheets made of it, it’s so soft. I would wear Eos underwear if I dared make such an animal. It’s that yummy.

I also have finished another baby blanket. I do not like the colors of this blanket very much. I thought they would be great together, but the green and charcoal are not contrasting enough for my taste. Alas, the blanket is done and I’m not redoing it.

The ho-hum of life continues humming along in Conniption Land. We get up, prepare for our weekday exoduses (exodi?) that ferry us to our respective job/school/daycare situations. We endure. We eat during prescribed eating times. We play during prescribed times. We’re allowed to leave at prescribed times. Once home, we do dinner and clean up, homework, baths, and bed. I squeeze in a little knitting before falling asleep, and we lay down only for the alarm to kick on at the beginning of the same thing the next day.

I understand the kids’ lives being dictated in this manner because without a schedule, they become heathens of which there is no stopping their quest for personal gratification, but when did Mike and I submit ourselves to such interference from the powers that be? It’s revolting. It’s disheartening. It’s gross.

It’s also January.

I recognize this time of year as my least favorite. Perhaps it was my subconscious that set it up so that both my kids were born in January so that I would have something to keep me busy (their combined birthday party next weekend) and help me get through this most trying of months, i.e. their faces as they glut themselves on our family’s generosity in the form of toys upon the toys of Christmas. Perhaps it was to add some happy into this dreariest of times. There’s nothing better than fresh new baby when all else seems so bleak and sad. Despite the limitations of birthday activities in the Month of Icicle, it’s something to which we all look forward. So, there’s been a hub of activity in my land, from watching sale ads to see who is putting soda on the cheap for Super Bowl a wee early (another timing coup on my part, I do believe) to brainstorming decorations I can make from common everyday items. Never underestimate the power of Styrofoam.

We’ve been watching an inordinate amount of TV lately too. How, without new episodes of Glee, you might ask? Well, that does leave a pretty bleak wormhole to fill, but we’ve been trying. We got Uverse a couple months ago and are fully in love with it. Four shows can record at once. We can watch recorded shows on any TV. We get Showtime without paying extra. What’s not to love? Mike is gorging himself on both the Military Channel and Military History Channel. If they had a channel named Cojones Engorging Testosterone Fulfilling Big Guns and Machines with some Hero Thrown In, I’d never see him again, for the flicker of the screen would have sucked him in the first week of the new programming schedule. I’m watching movies, some guilty pleasures (Confessions of a Shopaholic is a horrible movie…that I can’t stop watching. What can I say, I have a weakness for accented men that look good with some five o’clock shadow.) I’m watching kids’ shows with Son and Daughter. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe is a new favorite, as well as Race to Witch Mountain, though I will go to my grave swearing it’s for the special effects rather than watching Dwayne Johnson, a.k.a. The Rock, bulge his arm muscles trying to open various and sundry portals to Earth’s catacombs. Hubba Hubba. The Biggest Loser continues to inspire me, infuriate me (why do they insist on bringing people who need help losing weight to the Ranch only to send them home immediately and make them compete to resume their place? That’s like telling a heart patient, here’s your medicine, but hey! you’re going to have to EARN IT, Sit Ubu, sit! Good dog), and move me to tears, but after last season’s contestants I don’t know that I can be as moved by anyone as I was by Abby Rike’s story, losing her whole family in one fell swoop.

I’ve been reading around blogland a bit here and there, watching weight and exercise dustups blow out of proportion. I’ve been writing at a new site, My 15 Minutes to Better Fitness. And I’ve been dreaming of warmer weather, busy summer plans, getting out more. But we always do that. Our summers are packed to the gills in a way that sometimes gets uncomfortable, both in terms of stamina and wallet strain.

I feel like it’s all been done. I don’t want to watch another year pass in the same manner, ho hum. Taking to heart things that I’ve said lately about my physical lack of fitness and my commitment to doing better, being better, I’m choosing to make this year different than it was last year. Everyone has their anchor catchphrase that gets them through. My sister’s is, “It’s not an option to skip working out, to eat junk food.” Mine has become, “What are my choices? Status quo or better eating/exercising? What will make a difference?”

I don’t have any answers but I’m hoping that one foot in front of the other, one choice at a time, one decision to get up and moving will be the first and second and third in a chain of decisions that will have me looking back on this time as the beginning of the end of my sloth and the beginning of the beginning of my testing myself, challenging myself, working myself. Mostly, I want to believe in myself again. I will believe in myself again. I want to run a 5K this year, maybe even a 10K. I want to grow a greater portion of my own food. I want to have enough to preserve through leaner months. I want to feed myself and my family healthier. I want to feel better about the adult I’ve become. I want to mentally prepare myself for the idea of going back to school for a different degree, something that will shoot my career in a whole different direction. I want to be someone I can be proud of, instead of a lump on a pickle watching episodes of Biggest Loser while stuffing nachos in my food-hole thinking about someday, maybe when the weather is warmer.

I’m doing it now. Have been doing it for a few weeks, but I need to keep up the commitment. January will suck less next year.

Son eyes me warily but with a twinkle in his eye. We’re in a standoff, him on one side of the table, me on the other. Whenever I move, he moves in the opposite direction. His 37 pounds is lightning fast and I’m gasping for breath, but I haven’t caught him yet. I ignore the ragged sound and inch a little to my right. He inches to his right, and we move in circles. Daughter stands at the room entrance and screeches with glee. She’s next.

There! His eyes shifted just a little in her direction. He looks to be planning to dart out the door. I wait, my fingers splayed and my stance ready for whichever direction he chooses. He bolts. Damn, he’s fast. He squeezes past his sister and into the living room, me hot on his heels as I pursue. He screeches a laugh of his own. “You can’t get me,” he taunts. He’s probably right, but for the fact that I can out think him, which won’t always be the case. I lunge. Grab. Snag his shirt. He’s off balance, and I take that second to regain my own balance and close the distance. Yes! I’ve got him!

I pin him to the floor, hold his hand high above his head, exposing his tender underarm, and wiggle my finger in there until he’s crying with laughter, begging to be let up, promising the world just for a little tickle relief. Daughter has climbed on my back, showing her brother that she will stand in solidarity with me, protecting him regardless of the cost to her physically. I concede to his promises of early bedtime and eating his veggies after I feel I’ve gotten enough childhood belly laughter to recharge my own batteries, and I let him up. Gently, I peel Daughter from my back so I don’t conk her on the head or set her down too far from a soft landing. I lay back. I breathe, in and out. I’m sucking wind, cannot breathe, my throat on fire and I need some water pronto. I groan, roll over, get to my knees, brace my hands on the couch and heave.

When did it get so hard to get up from the floor? When did it get so hard to have a tickle fight with my kid? When did I get so out of shape? When did Orville Redenbacher move into my joints, making them pop pop pop popopopopopoPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP when I stretch or exert? Nasty squatter.

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“McDonald’s! I wanna go to McDonald’s for dinner!” This from the backseat as we pass the Golden Arches while we’re out and about. We look at the time. We know that our errands will take us through the time we’d normally be cooking something, so a home prepared meal means not eating until after 8 pm. We look at each other. We don’t want McD’s again. We’re sick of McD’s. Daughter chimes in, “Frrrrriiiiiiiieeeeeessss.”

Great. She has a total lexicon of about 10 words, and one of them is fries. Might as well not worry about her saying ‘shit’ or ‘douche canoe’ too. Perhaps we can get her a carton of cigarrettes for her birthday on Sunday and teach her how to flick a Bic while we’re at it. After all, while fries aren’t necessarily carcinogenic, they are in no way a healthy thing to eat. What are we teaching our kids?

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I sit at my desk, feet propped up on my CPU. I stare blankly at the report I’m looking at. The same report I’ve done every month for 8 years and three months. That’s 12 times a year, 8 years, 96 times, plus 3 months, 99 times I’ve done the same report. I’m the only one in my department who can do the report with any consistency. It is the reason I have a job, and also the reason I was given a good raise a couple years ago, moreso than average anyway. But god, if the procedure hasn’t become boring. What’s so fulfilling about telling a man who inherited millions and a company and didn’t spend one hour in college how much richer he’s gotten that month when, after nearly 10 years, I’m still trying to pay college off? I curse my mother for not marrying a wealthy business owner. Then I think of my father, a lawyer and a good man, oxymoron like Captain Jack Sparrow . He used to take all kinds of payments, knowing his clients couldn’t always afford cash money. He’s received cookware, a boat, a car, stocks, and all manner of bartered items. He’s gone to visit clients in the hospital because in their divorce, they’ve alienated everyone they know and he’s the only friendly face they have left. He’s waived fees for those who truly can’t pay. He loans his personal vehicles to clients who have no other means to travel when their only living relatives are out of state. I don’t know that I would trade my dad for a bank account. But I realize as I sit counting my beans/inventory/standards and variances that I am just a cog in a wealthy man’s grandfather clock, and not a very important one at that. Except for this report, which honestly, doesn’t move me. I open the file, save as a new month and begin the report again for the hundredth time. And daydream of one day finding a purpose to my career beyond making the rich get richer.

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My alarm blares. I groan and squint. 5:00 am. I roll over and sleep for nine more minutes. It blares again. Snooze. Snooze. Snooze. Finally, Mike nudges me about getting up since he doesn’t have to get up until 7, when I’m herding the kids out the door. He used to snooze for an hour (using the same alarm I do, so I’d be the one hitting his snooze. For years this went on. I see nothing wrong with a little payback now that he gets to sleep a little later before anyone judges harshly.) Finally, at 6 I drag my butt out of bed. My limbs feel utterly incapable of propelling me through the next hour, let alone the day. It’s only when the spray from the shower hits my face that I truly begin to wake. Why am I so tired all the time? I scrutinize myself cruelly in the mirror. Never did lose that baby weight, but who’m I kidding? I was this weight before I had my kids.

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I sit on the floor, my face puffy and swollen, my nose completely clogged. I cannot talk without a nasally tone, making my words sound more pathetic to my ears. Mike sits on the bed, his arms crossed, his body half turned away from me. Look at him, I think. He couldn’t be more obvious about not wanting to be near me now. We’ve spat words at each other with such venom and anger that someting inside me broke, releasing a flood of tears. This isn’t the life I thought I’d have. This isn’t what I want for myself, and by extension, my family. His words, “You’re mad all the time,” echo in my head. I’m miserable. I can barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I hate my job. I have a coworker that hates my guts and the feeling is mutual. But The Crazy sits next to me and the tension wraps itself around me like a slanket/snuggie, making me grumble at the stupidity of the entire situation and I would like to stand up and shout that I’m not this person I’m accused of being. But much like the stupidity of the slanket, it’s viral and spreading, and I can only ride it out and choose to ignore it while I continue on with my day. By the time I get home, I’m such a miserable wreck that I snap at my kids. I snap at my husband. I make everyone feel as miserable as I am. I am dragging everything down. I can’t keep up with my kids when I do find the time/energy to play with them. I sniffed at my clogged nose, pleaded with Mike not to pack a bag and leave for a few days to let things cool down. I opened my chest, ripped out my heart, and handed it to him again. I promised that with understanding of my emotions and what they were doing to me and those around me can come change. I promised him I would not live a miserable life. He stayed.

All of this began in October with a crashing realization that this horribleness was avoidable. There were some financial implications for us that brought everything to a head, ripped the scabs we’d built up over and over off and forced us to take a true look at ourselves, our lives together, and our future. Mine felt so bleak and awful that I well and truly, for the first time ever, felt hatred for myself and what I’ve let myself become. They say everyone has a rock bottom. I hit mine.

With this opening up of long mistreated wounds, I started takin a deeper look at things. One of the biggest reasons I’m so off the charts miserable all the time is my job. I looked into going back to school. I looked at what the local area colleges have to offer and what I might be interested in pursuing. As I realized that I’d be going back into serious debt and wouldn’t emerge with a new degree for many years, it occurred to me that at this point in our financial lives, we cannot afford for me to return to school. I know there are programs, grants, aid that we could get, but frankly, admitting I want to change careers is hard enough, and I don’t want to rush into a new career without truly wanting to study and love it. I have more soul searching to do to find what I wanna be when I grow up.

The next big thing making me miserable is my health. If I can improve my health, perhaps my job and career choice won’t seem like such a death sentence to me. Perhaps if other aspects of my life are improved, I will be able to appreciate the stability of my job and not let the drudgery bog me down. After all, I bet insurance agents, or house painters, or assembly line workers aren’t all passionate about what they do 100% of the time. And yet there is pride to be had there too.

So that’s what’s on my plate. I’ve already written about eating in a more environmentally sustainable manner. What I’ve only briefly touched on is that I’ve started running. On a treadmill. No one’s chasing me. No one’s holding’ a gun to my head and saying if I don’t run this mile and a half they’ll filet my dog. I’m voluntarily getting off my ass and getting some exercise. It’s slow going. I think I might have the start of shin splints. Maybe I have the wrong shoes. I’ve found some kickass running music (but hey, I’ll take any suggestions anyone might have)! I’m learning. I’m actually thinking of running a 5K. I wanted to last year but slacked off after a couple weeks on the treadmill. I don’t know if I’ve lost any weight. In the past, I’ve become a slave to the scale and so this time, I’m not letting anythin deter me. Weirdly, I’m liking running enough that the point of it (to lose weight) has changed some, so that I can get fit, and accomplish something. Tell my brain to stfu when it scoffs and says I can’t run that much. Well, 2010 is coming. And instead of resolutions which I’ve failed at many many times, I’m just making choices. What would I have done before? Is that going to help me change my health? Is that going to help me change my job? Is that going to help me change my outlook?

Love feels like a battlefield because you’re with the wrong guys. The right one makes love feel like a warm house in the deep of winter, a fluffy puppy so happy to see you that he’s wagging hard enough to shake his entire body, a hot mess of eye poppingly good sex that could furrow even a botoxed brow, and the best book you’ve ever read, all rolled into one. And it cures eye twitching.

What does your vag smell like? If it’s pretty floral scents, I’m pretty sure it’s because you’ve gotten yourself some good soap. However, I’m assuming you wouldn’t google that if it wasn’t a problem. Perhaps you ate some asparagus and didn’t use enough toilet paper to clean up? But I predict that’s the least of your problems. Namely, I hope you find a vegetarian boyfriend who loves asparagus. Good luck to you.

Dogs eat poop. It’s a fact of life. There is no why.

Not all poop floats. But perhaps it’s fluffier than the stuff that sinks. Just a guess. Some things are better left un-googled.

If you can answer the question of hair turning gray and then can find a cure, I’d be your betch for life. Seriously, I’ll handknit all your socks, draw your baths with floating rose petals on the the water and candles. I’ll make you from-scratch dinners for life.

I had to Google the zebra stripe thing myself, and found the answer duh worthy: for camouflage. Google doesn’t know everything, apparently.

Ice floats so that the liquid passing through your lips has just left the ice and is cold. It’s so cocktails are tastier. Go have one. It’ll help.

So long time no posty. Sorry about that. Things are shakin’ at the ol’ Conniption Household. Things I can’t talk about. Oooh, I know. I hate it when bloggers allude to things they ‘can’t’ talk about, but in this case, I simply can’t. Not so publicly anyway.

We took a couple trips. And then my computer decided that it wouldn’t recognize my camera as a device so the posts I had planned after those trips have been postponed. I have some knitting to show off, but again, that takes camera talking to computer properly. I’ll hopefully have that worked out shortly. You’ll also have to forgive me because the Mucous Plague has visited its pestilence upon our house and Son is the only one apparently unscathed. I’m hopped up on cold medicine.

A few weeks ago, we were sitting down to dinner and I asked Son how his day at Kindergarten had gone. He said, “Fine. I’m going to marry Billie*.” Billie is a little girl down the street who is in his class. I gathered my wits before I brayed laughter in his face and doomed him to a lifetime of peering at girls from behind a locker door and being too afraid to talk to anyone about his crushes, resulting in unnatural tendencies that will result in restraining orders and possibly a spot in US Weekly as the stalker-of-the-month to some celebrity.

Ahem.

Trying to keep the mirth from my voice, I asked him, “Does Billie know this? Have you discussed it with her to be sure she wants to marry you, too?” He said, “I chase her every day at school, and she runs from me. When I stop chasing her, she chases me back.”

Ah, true love. So uncomplicated in the mind of a five year old.

I asked him last night what he would do if he ever caught her, or let her catch him. His response was that he wouldn’t kiss her, that’s for sure. If she wanted to kiss him on the cheek, well, then, he might let her, but he wasn’t doing the planting of the kiss. I found myself torn because while I think it’s perfectly normal what he and Billie are doing, exploring social tendencies and how to handle their feelings, I also don’t want him to see the inside of the principal’s office, or worse, face suspension or expulsion over a kiss as the media has reported with the advent of Zero Tolerance at schools. Common sense is not the order of the day, and while I think my kids’ school is more common sensical than some, I don’t want to take the chance. I told him to save the kissing for when he’s older, that he can hold her hand, or give her a quick hug (but not hang on her) but that kissing is for when he’s a teenager.

Then, this morning, he asked me to fix his hair into ‘fun hair’ for school. Next, he’ll be checking his labels and making sure none of his clothes come from Wal-Mart. Does it really start this early? Really? I’m not equipped for this. And relying on my husband to do the guidance bit for Son and his pre-pubescent angst seems like the answer since Mike is a good man, but I feel out of control here, like a delicate flower in a freezer full of sausage.

Also, it seems like poor timing on my part since we’re embarking on the Candy/Holiday Food season but I’m tired. Physically, emotionally, and in general my apathy is overwhelming. All I feel like doing is eating, sleeping, and I’m doing the minimum required to get by. This has been the norm for a long time, and it’s becoming a problem. It’s weighing down my attitude, and I can’t remember the last time I smiled a genuine smile. I am tired of being in a bad mood. I’m tired of not feeling 100% capable of keeping up with life. I’m sick of wishing for change instead of making the changes necessary. I am beginning to struggle with depression in a way that I haven’t in a long time, and at the time, I hoped I’d never face such a black abyss again. I wanted to write about this in a more meaningful way, something with pretty words strung together in awesome ways but I’m not capable of that today what with the cold medicine coursing through my veins. But I’m afraid if I don’t say it, it won’t be as real and the more tenuous it remains, the less I’ll feel confident in sticking to it. So I’m saying it now. There will be changes around here. They’ve already begun. My diet and exercise routine is being mapped out as we speak. I’ve joined Spark People, though I’m a little leery of keeping a tool like that at my fingers because sometimes the actual changes required are lost in the use of tools. All talk, no walk, if you know what I mean. I’m also going to apply to be on Losing It with Jillian Michaels. I don’t know if we’ll be picked to have a camera crew and Jillian descend on our house, and the odds aren’t in our favor, but to have a life coach come to us to analyze and help us reprioritize seems like, I don’t know, a step in the right direction, and we couldn’t afford one on our own. And if Jillian were really going to visit, I’d have a hard time refraining from humping her leg. I would at the very least, wish to give her a hug, if only to feel the solidity of her muscles. Her awesomeness scares me and cowers me as well as inspires me.

So! That’s what’s up with me. There will hopefully be some changes coming up. Unfortunately, I’m in the throes of one of those colds that saps your energy, and while I’m ready to get going on this fork in my life road now that I’ve chosen which fork to take, I know that any effort I expend on the exercise front will only prolong the weakness and sickness that I’ve been plagued with for the last few days. It is one of those massive mucous parties in my chest that could easily become bronchitis. However, in an effort to prove that I’m not just making excuses, I’m making small changes already. I spent some time over the weekend cooking for the week ahead so that I can keep to a healthy diet and get into a new routine to jumpstart what I plan to be a whole turnaround. I need this. Or I’m staring into a life where I’ve alienated every person who has ever cared about me and I lose my family. I’m not willing to go there. I’ve got some work to do. I need to get on it before I’m too far gone to care about losing it. Something’s gotta give, and it’s not gonna be me. Wish me luck.

*name changed for the sake of the children. Please, won’t you think of the children?